Anywhere Where He Is
by Smaointe Salach
Summary: Re-Upload! Alternate Ending and Sequel to "I Am From the Gutter, Too" (Read that first!) Javert returns home from the barricade to find Éponine gravely ill but alive. Their saga continues. Back because of popular demand and my rediscovered ability to write post-pregnancy! Thanks for all your support; I'll be updating frequently.


**A/N: So, a lot of people were displeased/disappointed/saddened by the abruptness and sadness with which I ended I Am From the Gutter (Too). I also felt like I really wanted to write more Javert/Éponine and that their story had more room along the trajectory I'd plotted. Therefore, this is an alternative/happier ending to that story with a continuation/sequel. What's in italics here is the ending of I Am From the Gutter (Too); where it returns to normal text is where the new story begins. I hope this satiates the tastes of those who wish for happier trails for J/É and those who just wanted more. This will be a full-length story.**

_An hour later, the soldiers retreated for the night, but Javert knew they would be back with cannons and more men in the morning's light. Grantaire stalked angrily into the Corinth restaurant, looking with enraged, drunken eyes down at Javert through the darkness. He took a pocket-knife out of his vest and Javert realized with a knot in his throat that Grantaire had come here to kill him._

_But then Grantaire cut the ropes that bound Javert and murmured quietly, "There has been enough unnecessary death tonight. Get the hell out of here. Do not return. Do not go to your superiors. Just go home."_

_Javert said nothing. He could not even bring himself to thank the boy. He could not bring himself to apologize. The words could not make their way to his lips. He simply stared at Grantaire's glassy eyes in the darkness and nodded fervently._

_When the ropes were off of his arms, it took a moment for Javert to regain feeling in his extremities enough to walk. But then when he had the feeling again, he did not simply walk. He ran. He ran as quickly as he possibly could, out the side door of the Corinth restaurant to which Grantaire nodded and down a very narrow alley that he'd not even known was there. He ran hard and without stopping until he found himself on his own street, and then he pulled his key from his pocket and unlocked his door._

_As he turned the key in the lock, Javert realized just how lucky he was to be alive. Perhaps, he thought absently, he was not supposed to be alive. Perhaps he was supposed to die in that restaurant, and Grantaire had meddled with fate._

_Javert pushed the door open and tossed his dirty woolen hat to the ground, calling out, "Éponine?"_

_There was no answer._

_Panicked and suddenly filled with terror, Javert went dashing down the hallway into the bedroom._

_He flung the bedroom door open and said again, "Éponine?" His voice was shaking; he felt his eyes burn with tears that he could not keep from boiling to the surface._

There she was, lying peacefully as an angel in their bed, a three-tiered candelabrum glowing on the table beside her. Her skeletal hands were crossed over her abdomen and her eyes were serenely shut in sleep or death – Javert knew not which. Terrified, he leapt across the room to try to jar her from her inertia. The sound of his footsteps startled her, and her brown eyes pitched open before he reached the bed.

As Javert reached her side, he nearly fainted with relief, the sight of her waking sending an overwhelming sense of elation coursing through his petrified mind. Éponine's eyes were dull and limp in the candlelight, but she was awake – she was alive.

"My God," Javert gasped, clutching anxiously at the blankets on the bed. He did not want to touch Éponine for fear of breaking her delicate body, but he felt that if he did not hold fast to something, he would collapse. "I thought… I thought I would come home and find you…" He could not finish the terrible thought. He gulped heavily, his eyes flitting about the room in memory of his panic. Finally, his gaze drifted down to meet his wife's, and the corners of her dehydrated lips curled up a bit at him. She reached a bony, trembling hand up to his face and cupped his scruffy cheek. Her skin was chilled and clammy, but at least she was moving.

"I promised you I would be here when you got home," Éponine reminded him simply, "and so here I am."

"I shall fetch the doctor again for you just as quickly as I possibly can," Javert swore, taking her hand tenderly in his and bringing it to his lips. He kissed her scrawny fingers gently, just barely touching his mouth to her skin, inhaling her presence, grateful that she was here and alive and that he was with her. He shut his eyes and licked his lips, realizing for the first time how thirsty he was. "I need water," he admitted, "as must you."

He was hesitant to leave her, even for a moment, but he let her hand slink down to the bed again and tentatively backed from the room to fetch them nourishment.

"Can you take any food?" Javert called to Éponine as he passed through the threshold. He was delighted to hear her reply meekly,

"Perhaps a taste of bread, my love."

Javert brought a loaf of bread from the kitchen for them and a pitcher of water with two glasses. He pulled a chair alongside the bed and tore little pieces of bread, taking bites for himself and feeding pieces to Éponine as often as she would take them. He slipped the softest bits he could find between her pallid, thin lips, and then touched a water glass to them so that she could moisten the food and make it easier to swallow. Nothing in quite some time had made him as happy as the sight of Éponine eating solid food. She seemed to relish each tiny nibble that he fed her, her bony jaw moving ever so slightly as she chewed, her swan-like neck bobbing as she swallowed carefully. Javert watched her vigilantly as she ate, only occasionally taking bites of bread and swigs of water for himself. They did not speak for a long while, for they were both thoroughly exhausted.

Finally, Éponine croaked, "What happened out there?"

Javert lowered his gaze and stared at what remained of the loaf of bread. He did not answer at first, for he was not certain of what to say. He chewed his lip and considered whether or not he should withhold news of Marius' death from Éponine. The very last thing he wished to do at the moment was to make her weaker with a distressing revelation. On the other hand, to suppress the truth was to essentially lie, and that had only brought strife in their marriage. Finally, Javert spoke.

"The rebels seized Lamarque's funeral cortege," he said slowly, tearing himself a bite of bread and chewing it thoughtfully. "Barricades were quickly constructed on many streets. Things were quickly going south for the rebels at the time that I was discovered as a policeman. I was taken prisoner and was released by a drunken student. I escaped and came straight home. The rebels at the barricade where I was are all destined for slaughter."

He continued to consider whether or not to say anything about the Pontmercy boy, but he could not bring himself to meet Éponine's eyes. She said nothing for a good long while, and then at last she asked very quietly,

"Did you see or hear anything of Marius?"

Javert took a sip of water, his hand shaking as he did. He nodded grimly, finally bringing his own pale eyes to meet Éponine's dark ones. His mind was flooded with the memory of Marius' body tumbling from the barricade, landing in a splayed and bloody heap upon the cobblestones.

"He fell," Javert said simply, his voice cracking in his throat. "I was tied up. There was nothing I could do. I'm very sorry, Éponine."

He was not certain what sort of response he expected. Perhaps he expected Éponine to scream, or to beat upon Javert and accuse him of killing Marius himself. But she was so weary, so ill and so exhausted, that her eyes simply glistened with silent tears that tumbled quietly down her emaciated cheeks. She nodded, as if she were terribly sad but not at all surprised. Her trembling hand extended to Javert's and she laced her fingers through his, searching for comfort. He sighed.

"When all of this is over, when they are readying the boys for funerals, I promise you that I will ensure he is given all proper dignities," Javert pledged. He bent forward to place a gentle kiss upon Éponine's clammy forehead.

At that, Éponine did begin to shake a bit with her cries, and she leaned into Javert's chest. He very tenderly snaked his arms about her, not grasping on for fear of hurting her. He coursed his fingertips around her spiny back and felt her heave with growing sobs as she buried her little face in his shoulder.

"I am very… very glad that you are here," he heard her whisper, her voice muffled by the rough skin of his neck.

Javert kissed her hair and replied, "So am I."

He spent the rest of the night sleeplessly lying in bed, staring at Éponine. She drifted off a few times, each time huddled against his form. Javert would shut his eyes for ten minutes and count her breaths or concentrate on the feel of her pulse beneath his thick, rough fingertips.

Finally, dawn broke, and Javert slithered from the bed and heated water to fill the bathtub in the study. He readied some towels and Marseilles soap and a sponge, and then he proceeded back into the bedroom to fetch Éponine. Her fever and sickness had sullied her and she was beyond ready for a bath, he knew, as was he. He would let her bathe first, as he always did, and then he would take the seconds.

"Éponine," he said gently, peeling back the blankets from her sleeping form. She roused hesitantly and peered up at him through the veil of her scraggly hair. She smiled gently and reached for him. He lifted her from the bed, cradling her in her arms and marveling at how much weight she'd lost. She weighed hardly anything at all as he carried her to the next room. She was like a little porcelain doll in his arms, and he worried that she was just as fragile as one. He set her down very tentatively in the study beside the bathtub, his arms hovering around her frame in case she was not able to stand. She did, though her legs were shaky and unsteady. He helped her peel off her wrinkled nightgown, and only then did Javert see the extent of her emaciation.

Éponine's ribs and collarbones jutted out severely from her torso. Her elbows and shoulders were sharp and her pelvis was clearly defined. Her stomach was shrunken and her arms and legs were like twigs. Javert's heart ached and he felt nauseated to see her in such a state. She'd not been so thin even when he'd first met her, when she'd been starving on the streets. The cholera had been more efficient and effective in ravaging her body than had years of grating poverty.

She saw him staring at her form and glanced down at her body self-consciously. "I know," she mumbled with a lowly little sigh. "I'm hideous now."

"No." Javert shook his head firmly. "You're beautiful as always, Éponine. I worry for you, that's all." He furrowed his brow and cursed himself for making her feel embarrassed and insecure in her time of illness.

He helped her into the bath, into which she sank with a hiss against the heat of the water. Javert stripped off his cotton shirt and positioned himself behind Éponine. He used a mug to pour water over her hair and he washed it for her, letting water course down his bare arms. As he rinsed her hair and combed a tiny bit of lavender oil through it, the aroma hit his nostrils and he felt tears brim to his eyelids again. That was her scent – lavender. He thought back to the first time he'd seen her in a bath, to the first time they'd made love, and all the many times since. Always, she'd smelled of lavender.

Javert had been afraid to go undercover in the rebellion, in a way that he would never have been afraid years before. He had selfish and unselfish motivations to live now. He needed Éponine; he needed more time with her. And he needed to be here for her. It was very important that he be alive for at least a while longer, in order to love Éponine way she deserved to be loved. Seeing Marius shot down like an animal, being tied to a pole by rebels, and fearing Éponine's death had only shown Javert how very mortal humans were, and the thought terrified him.

He coursed the soapy sponge over Éponine's shoulder blades, gently massaging her, and her little voice made a low sound of approval.

"Someday, will you make love to me again?" she asked quietly.

"When you are well and have built up strength," Javert agreed, smiling to himself.

"You don't want me when I look like this," Éponine said sadly, her head nodding. Javert could not see her face, but he furrowed his brow and frowned.

"Éponine," he said, confused, "it has nothing to do with… I do not wish to cause you further harm. I shall hold you and touch you all you like, but I will wait to lie with you until you are well again."

"Then will you try very hard to put a child inside me?" Éponine asked.

Javert sighed quietly to himself. He had to admit that they'd never tried particularly actively to procreate. Their lovemaking had always been just that – making love, without a concrete end goal of a child. He'd often pulled out of her, finished elsewhere. They'd never been vigilant in timing their lovemaking with Éponine's cycles. Neither of them had ever had a child, so for all they knew, one or both of them was completely incapable of creating a child in the first place.

But of course the thought had crossed Javert's mind, especially over the past day and a half, that the clock was ticking on his own procreative potential. Éponine was very young indeed, and had ages in which she could have children. But Javert was not a young man anymore. Even if he had a son now, he'd be downright old by the time that son was a man. Waiting ten or even five more years did not seem like a very good option.

Javert put the sponge down beside the bath and sighed again, rather sadly.

"Perhaps we ought not to have a child at all," he said to Éponine. "By the time I am dead of old age, you will still be young enough to remarry and bear sons."

Éponine whirled around in the bathtub to face him, splashing a bit of water out of the side. She moved with more haste than Javert would have thought her capable of doing given her illness, and indeed she looked pained after swiveling so quickly.

"How dare you suggest such a thing!" she said angrily. "That I would ever remarry!"

Javert pinched his lips. "Let's not speak of it," he said, picking up the sponge and reaching to dip it in the water again. Éponine batted the sponge away angrily.

"I want a child," she said through gritted teeth. "I want your child."

Javert licked his lips and felt the gaze in his pastel eyes soften. "We have been married for nearly a year and a half," he reminded her as gently as he possibly could, "and still there is no child in your belly. Perhaps I can not give you one, or perhaps you can not receive one."

Éponine gulped, hard. Her eyes looked worried. "Perhaps not," she said shakily, "but you do not know that yet. Please… my love… promise me that when I am well you will try your best to give me your child."

Javert smiled gently and brushed the wet sponge over Éponine's gaunt collarbone, his eyes watching the warm water trickle down her pale skin. "Am I not enough for you?" he teased. "You feel the need for more excitement in your life?"

"You are a perfect man in a great many ways," Éponine said to him, leaning forward to plant a gentle kiss upon his lips, "and that is why you ought to have an heir."

"An heir?" Javert chuckled, his low laugh rumbling against Éponine's pallid, dehydrated lips. She had pronounced the word as though Javert were some sort of member of the nobility and Éponine were determined to bear him a successor to title and land.

He finished bathing her without any more mention of breeding, and he simply reveled in the chance to see her out of bed and well enough to converse with him. Still, Javert's mind was nagged with many worries. The rebellion was still being quashed outside, and soon enough he'd have to bathe himself, dress in his uniform, and report to his superior officers that he'd been captured and driven from his undercover operation.

Soon enough he'd have to go inspect the carnage. There was no doubt in Javert's mind that the army would crush the "revolution" quickly and thoroughly. The students and poor simply did not have the numbers, weapons, tactics, or stamina to withstand government and military forces. Javert knew that first-hand. It should all be over very soon, he thought, as he glanced at a clock and saw that it was nearly ten in the morning. He would need to get to the police station soon to report for cleanup duty. It would not be pleasant to wade through the blood of misguided countrymen in order to sort out the damage.

It would not be pleasant to paw over the rows of corpses in search of a certain Marius Pontmercy.

Javert arrived at the station at half past eleven, and when he pulled the door open, the station appeared completely empty.

"Monsieur le Contrôleur?" Javert called softly, his footsteps creaking on the wood floors of the local station's small entryway. Javert clenched his fists and reached to place his hand cautiously upon the police-issued flintlock pistol at his side. Javert was not certain why he was so uneasy, except for the fact that a police station ought to be bustling at a time like this, not deserted and quiet. "Who is here?" he called again. From a room at the back of the station, he heard a man's voice reply,

"Javert? Is that you?" Javert's Contrôleur Général stepped heavily from the rear of the station, looking extremely tired. His hair was mussed and his face was haggard. "Thank God the rumors are not true, then," the Contrôleur said with a sigh of relief. "They were saying that the rebels had captured and executed you."

"They discovered me, true enough," Javert nodded, looking embarrassed. "But, here I am, Monsieur. I am very sorry to have failed in my task."

"And your wife?" the Contrôleur prompted. "Is she quite all right?"

Javert nodded gratefully. "She is well enough. Thank you for your concern, Monsieur."

"If you can leave her for a few hours, then, we shall need you back at the barricades," the Contrôleur said briskly, shifting on his feet. He sighed and looked remorseful. "There are, unfortunately, a good many bodies on both sides that require removal to the morgues. The crews shall need supervision."

Javert nodded. "Is it over, then?" he asked tentatively. "Have the army and the guard quelled it all?"

"Indeed. Most of the rebels gave up without ever fighting. Those that fought did so to the death, I'm afraid to say, and at great expense to the military. Several hundred wounded on each side; several dozen dead on each side. This morning His Majesty the King showed himself in Saint-Denis to make it clear who's in charge of this city, and that's seemed to put a stop to the last holdouts. The only place we're still seeing any sort of remaining trouble is in Cloître Saint-Merry, and the guard there has command to shoot on suspicion of any trouble."

Javert chewed his lip and cast his eyes down gravely. "If I may, Monsieur le Contrôleur, I should like to return to the same barricade where I was undercover. I learned the names of many of those fighting there, so I might be able to identify some of their corpses. I am also in search of a specific young man, one whom I watched fall and know to be dead. I know his identity very specifically. His family is nobility. It will be urgent to return him to his kin as quickly as possible."

"Hm." The Contrôleur nodded thoughtfully. "That seems reasonable, Javert. Go, then, and stay until the bloody mess is as cleaned up as we can hope for in one day, will you?" The superior officer sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily, retreating with heavy steps into the back room and leaving Javert standing alone in the entry of the station. Javert looked around at the empty desks and benches and supposed that everyone else was already assigned to cleanup posts and patrols. He cleared his throat and bowed respectfully to the disappearing figure of the Contrôleur Général, and then he turned and walked briskly from the station, his boots clicking on the cobblestones.

The corpses were already arranged in neat rows by the time Javert arrived. At one end of the street were the fallen soldiers, the members of the army and National Guard who had been shot by the rebels. In this street, there were eighteen of them total, which angered Javert greatly. They lay side-by-side, comrades even in death. Javert surveyed the dead soldiers with a wistful sigh. He did not know nor recognize any of them, but that did not lessen the blow of their deaths. These were his countrymen, all of whom had sworn themselves to the service of king and country, all of whom had been struck down by foolish rebels with no hope of victory. The deaths of these soldiers had been entirely preventable and were totally needless. One after the other, Javert looked at them, seeing the tears in their uniforms where bullets and bayonets had ripped through uniform jackets and pant legs, the dark stains from their blood. He saw the peaceful expressions upon their faces and knew they were at rest, though they should, each of them, be walking about this morning with their comrades who had survived. Javert was far angrier about these soldiers' deaths than about those he'd seen in Napoleon's wars. This had not been war. It had been unnecessary rebellion that had led to gratuitous and pointless deaths on both sides of the barricades.

On the other end of the street lay the students, their mismatched street clothing betraying them of their often-bourgeois statuses. There was one among them, the little boy Gavroche, whose presence made Javert's heart grow heavy. He'd hoped not to see the youngster's small body among these grown rebels and soldiers, but here the child was, lying still and quiet, his vibrant blue eyes glowing in the summer light.

Javert bent down and shut the child's eyes carefully, wondering with a shake of his head why no one had had the sense to do it yet. He stepped slowly down the row of casualties. Grantaire, the drunken young man who had freed Javert from his binds in the Corinth restaurant, had been slain alongside his friends. Enjolras, the energetic and charismatic leader of the students, lay beside Grantaire, his curly hair no longer shaking with the excitement of giving a speech, but rather motionless in death.

Javert glanced down the street to survey the sight of the barricade being disassembled by the lower-ranking police officers that had been summoned to do so. He shook his head again, thinking of the waste involved. Most of the furniture that had been tossed down and used to build the barricade had been broken or irreparably damaged by its use in the structure. Shutters, chairs, window frames, table legs… all had been tossed indiscriminately into the barricade without thought of what would come after the fight. The street had essentially torn up everything that could be moved and placed it in the roadblock. Now these poor folk who had had so little in the beginning had even less, and to what end? Javert sighed and stared down the row of the students' corpses, wondering absently whether any of them had managed to escape.

That was when he realized that he had not yet seen the body of Marius Pontmercy.

He furrowed his brow curiously and walked up and down the row of bodies for the third time. He looked into each dead face. No, no, no. Each time, he saw a foolish dead young man, a boy, really, but never Marius.

He was not here.

Javert stalked quickly over to the inspector overseeing the disassembly of the barricade and said brusquely,

"Inspector, are all the casualties accounted for in this street?"

The inspector turned from his duties and nodded politely to Javert. "Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire. The dead are all here. The injured have all been taken to the hospital."

"The injured?" Javert repeated. "You mean, from the military side. Surely there were no injured rebels? They've all been killed."

"Why, no, Monsieur." The inspector shook his head. "There was also one injured insurgent. He was believed to be dead like the rest, but as the bodies were being collected this morning, he coughed and squirmed. They took him to the Hôtel-Dieu. If he survives, he is to be charged in court."

Javert felt his eyes go wide. "His name?" he demanded, putting his hands eagerly on the young inspector's shoulders.

The inspector looked at Javert's hands confusedly and shook his head again. "I'm not sure of his identity, Monsieur le Commissaire," he said fearfully.

Without another word, Javert dashed off toward the Hôtel-Dieu.

The hospital was swarming with patients, for the cholera epidemic was still in full swing in Paris, and now there had been the added casualties of the failed rebellion. Nonetheless, Javert was brought to by a nurse to a room with rows of iron beds, and she was shown a bed with an unconscious male patient lying in it.

"This is the injured revolutionary, Monsieur," the young nurse said shyly. "He was brought just this morning. Gunshot wound."

It was Marius, all right. There was no doubt about that. His brown messy hair lay splayed about his freckled face, and his green eyes were closed in sleep, but Javert recognized him easily.

"Will he survive?" Javert asked quickly, and the nurse shrugged helplessly.

"It is far too early to say," she admitted. "He bled quite a bit. It shall depend on his fortitude and his will to live. It would be better for him to heal at a home, perhaps, instead of here. We are too busy to give him much attention, with all the cholera patients and now the influx from the rebellion. But we do not know who he is, so we've no one to contact to come fetch him."

"His name is Marius Pontmercy, and his grandfather is a wealthy monarchist by the name of Monsieur Gillenormand," Javert pronounced, spitting each word as though it tasted poorly.

The young nurse stared at him with wide eyes. "How do you know this?" she demanded.

Javert glanced down at her briefly. "I am a member of the police force, mademoiselle; I make it my business to know such things. I shall ensure that Monsieur Gillenormand is informed that his grandson is at the Hôtel-Dieu. The grandfather has more than suitable accommodations for the boy to heal, as well as the ability to provide nursing care at home. I'm sure that Gillenormand shall send for the boy straight away."

"And if he lives," the nurse began, "will he be charged in court?"

"That is not for me to decide," Javert said honestly. He took one final look at Marius and turned to go.

As he walked from the Hôtel-Dieu back to the barricade to finish his cleanup duty, Javert tried to clear his mind of the revelation that, at least for now, Marius Pontmercy was alive. He was not sure how to feel about the notion. Javert had been disturbed to see Marius tumble from the barricade in apparent death; he'd been devastated to have to inform Éponine of her friend's demise. Nevertheless, he had to admit to himself that some trifling part of his mind had felt a measure of sick relief at the idea that the boy was gone forever.

He contemplated whether or not to tell Éponine that he'd discovered Marius was not, indeed, dead. I'll tell her he's alive, Javert decided, when it's clear he's going to stay alive. Until then, there's no reason for her to know.

Resolved to keep the information to himself for the time being, Javert completed his work in the streets and then returned home, his legs feeling heavier than ever.

Later that evening, after washing up and stripping off his uniform, Javert climbed into bed beside Éponine and inhaled her lavender scent deeply into his nostrils. He sighed with a sense of contentment, and she whispered into the darkness,

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing at all," he answered truthfully, rolling onto his side to face her.

Éponine reached out to finger the tendrils of hair that were growing long around his forehead. "You need a haircut soon," she informed him, and he nodded. He shut his eyes, his drowsiness enhanced by the feel of her little fingers twirling around his hair. "Will you please make love to me?" he heard Éponine ask softly.

Javert sighed, his eyes still shut. "You only just asked me this morning," he reminded her gently, "and, if you recall, we agreed to wait until you are much improved physically."

"I can't wait," Éponine protested with a little whine. "I need you now."

Javert cracked his eyes and felt the corners of his lips turn up a bit. "Impatient little thing, aren't you?" he asked, though of course his own body had been aching for release for weeks. He'd disciplined himself and had not touched himself in all the while he'd not been able to take Éponine. Now his body, which had become accustomed to attention over the past year and a half, was practically screaming at him for indulgence.

Indeed, as he felt Éponine's hands sneak under his nightshirt and trail up his thighs, he shivered in the night and responded almost instantly to her touch.

"Éponine," he murmured darkly, squinting his eyes shut against the feel of her deft little fingers closing around him and pumping gently.

"Don't tell me you want nothing to do with it," she whispered teasingly, and of course Javert could say no such thing.

"I do not wish to hurt you," he said honestly, through gritted teeth. "It's not worth it, Éponine, just to try to put a child in you…"

"You won't hurt me," she cooed reassuringly, and as she turned her body away from his so that he was spooning tightly with her, she murmured, "just be gentle with me."

"Why are you so determined tonight?" Javert demanded, his voice a frustrated hiss in Éponine's ear even as his rough hands hiked up her nightgown to her waist.

"The timing is right," Éponine insisted, her little hand reaching up to rest upon her pillow. "I don't want to have to wait an entire month to try again."

Javert contemplated how badly she wanted a child as he tried to push himself into her. She was not nearly wet enough to allow him comfortable entry, and it was the first time that had ever happened. All the many times before that they'd made love, she'd been drenched for him, for they'd spent time kissing and touching to prepare for the act. Now more discouraged than ever, Javert pulled back and whispered to Éponine,

"You are not ready for me, my love."

She rolled over to face him, and there were tears in her eyes. "I'm so tired," she confessed. "I still don't feel well."

Javert stared at her as though she were rather thick. "Well, of course you do not," he said, as though it should be perfectly obvious. "You were still so ill last night that I was shocked to come home and find you alive. I'm stunned, frankly, that you're even putting up a front of interest in making love when you must feel so terribly. This is nonsense, Éponine, to do something like this right now… please, I beseech you… give it time and a child will come."

"As you said, husband, over a year a half has already passed," she said, and the tears that had welled in her eyes began to fall silently down her gaunt cheeks. "And in two weeks it shall be your b-birthday, and…"

Javert's steely eyes softened. So that was the root of all of this. There was no child, and in two weeks' time he'd be even older, with a new, terrifying age attached to his name. He licked his lips and nodded thoughtfully. "I promise you, Éponine," he said as gently as he possibly could, "that I will take very good care of you and make you well again. And when you are well, I shall make love to you every single day until there is a child in your womb."

He held her until she calmed down, until she fell asleep. At last he, too, drifted off to sleep, though his own sleep was deeply troubled by nightmares. He could see Gavroche's sapphire eyes staring up at him in death. He could see the rows of fallen soldiers. He could see Marius, tumbling from the barricade, lying broken in a hospital bed, growing strong again and stealing away his young bride…

The stately home that belonged to Monsieur Gillenormand stood as an imposing reminder that the French Revolution – the first one – had not succeeded in entirely eliminating the aristocracy from the country. As Javert approached the large, black front doors and prepared to clank the heavy brass knocker, he straightened his dress uniform self-consciously and realized he was as out of place in this neighborhood as he'd been when he'd met the Duke of Orléans the previous fall.

The knocker made a thudding reverberation upon the stout doors when Javert pounded it three times. After a brief moment, one of the doors opened gracefully, and a butler in a crisp morning suit stood before Javert.

"Monsieur," the butler nodded, bowing politely to Javert. The uniform spoke for itself. It did not matter what to what class Javert belonged as an individual – he was a member of the police force, and that fact demanded respect. "Please do come in."

The butler stood aside and gestured for Javert to enter the cavernous marble entryway, which was brightly illuminated by a glass skylight above. Javert carefully scraped traces of mud from his boots on the rough rug outside the doors before stepping gratefully over the threshold, and he nodded politely at a passing chambermaid as he took in the impressive chamber before him.

"How may I be of assistance today, Monsieur…?" the butler prodded Javert for his name and title, and Javert quickly replied,

"I am Commissaire Javert, Paris Police." He removed his black felt hat as the butler shut the door behind him and tucked it neatly under his arm. Seemingly out of nowhere, another butler appeared and asked softly,

"May I take your hat, Monsieur le Commissaire?"

Javert startled and shook his head politely. "No, thank you. It is part of my uniform, and I shall keep it. Anyway, I shan't be here long. I need to speak with Monsieur Gillenormand."

"The Monsieur is upstairs taking his luncheon," the first butler informed Javert tightly, "but if you would be so good as to proceed into the parlor, I shall be more than happy to inform him of your presence."

Javert nodded, a minute little bob of his head, and followed the butler into the plush room beyond the entryway. Rich red tapestries covered the walls, and the upholstery on the furniture was so fine that Javert was quite nervous to sit in it at all. He was offered tea and coffee, and chose the latter, which he sipped nervously as he sat in the silent parlor, waiting for the arrival of the elderly aristocrat. An ornate Swiss clock ticked away the seconds on the mantle. Javert eyed the little decorative porcelain figurines and the lace curtains in the room and thought that it was all a bit much. He could see why, perhaps, a plucky young man such as Marius would find all these trappings a bit stifling, though of course the poverty of Saint-Michel seemed a bit of an overcompensation.

Just as Javert was contemplating this notion, he heard the soft clearing of a throat from behind him. He looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the butler in the threshold.

"Monsieur Gillenormand, may I present to you Commissaire Javert of the Parisian Police force?" he said to the ancient man behind him, and Gillenormand stepped shakily into the room and extended a hand to Javert.

Javert stepped quickly around the divan upon which he'd been sitting and bowed respectfully to the old aristocrat. He shook the man's hand gently and murmured, "Monsieur. I am honored."

"Let us sit," Gillenormand said, his ancient voice trembling, "and you may tell me how my grandson Marius was killed. I am assuming that is why you are here."

Javert furrowed his brow and said nothing for a moment as he resumed his seat upon the divan. The butler helped Gillenormand into a wingback opposite the sofa, and the elder man stared anxiously at Javert, his pale eyes watery.

"Actually, Monsieur, your grandson is alive, though gravely injured," Javert said finally, and Gillenormand looked very surprised. Beside him, the butler appeared to try to control his emotions tightly, and Javert assumed that the butler knew Marius just as well as his own grandfather.

Gillenormand swallowed hard. "Where is he?"

"He is at the Hôtel-Dieu," Javert answered quickly.

Gillenormand looked to the butler and nodded. "Send for him at once," he ordered, and the butler bowed and dashed from the room. Once he was gone, Gillenormand said in a low voice to Javert, "You must understand, Monsieur le Commissaire - I have always loved my grandson, despite his very questionable political ideations. His father is no better, a senseless Napoleonic activist." Gillenormand rolled his eyes. "As for Marius, he would sooner see the world go up in flames than have a man on the throne whose father was there before him. He's a radical through and through, but ultimately he is my grandson. I wanted nothing more than to see this foolish rebellion fall apart at the seams, but I would never wish for my Marius to fall victim to its failure."

Javert nodded his understanding. He took a small sip of coffee and set the cup down with a little chink of the porcelain. "I have known of Monsieur Pontmercy for some time."

Gillenormand looked curious. "How do you mean?"

Javert thought of telling the old man that he'd married Marius' friend from the slums, but as he glanced around the plush parlor, he realized that would only make him seem like more the peasant. So instead he simply said,

"I spent a good deal of time on patrol in the area where Monsieur Pontmercy has lived the past several years. Saint-Michel."

Then Gillenormand scoffed and said sourly, "Saint-Michel. Horrid, putrid, festering rat-hole. Why on Earth he would willingly put himself in that rotting void leaves me positively baffled. Nothing and no one good has ever come, nor shall ever come, of that godforsaken place."

Suddenly Javert was very glad indeed that he had not mentioned to Monsieur Gillenormand that he'd married a girl from Saint-Michel.

At daybreak on his birthday, Javert awoke to the sound of rain falling softly outside the open window. He cracked his eyes and saw the sheer curtains billowing gently in the breeze of the cerulean light of early morning. Javert did not have work today, so he was initially rather irritated at himself for waking so early.

He glanced over to Éponine and saw her still fast asleep, her little hands holding gently onto the blankets as she slumbered. Her chestnut hair fell in messy waves around her angelic face, which was bathed in the chalky light of the rainy dawn. Her lavender aroma was enhanced when it mingled with the damp smell of the rain drifting in through the open window. Javert sighed contentedly to himself, realizing that this was only the second birthday of a great many that he'd spent in the company of another person.

He slithered from between the sheets and padded over to the window to glance out into the empty, quiet street. The gentle rain fell upon the cobblestones outside in a soft, soothing patter, and Javert pulled the shutters open wider so that he could feel the moisture a bit upon his bearded face. He shut his eyes and listened to the sound of the rain, thinking over the past two weeks gratefully.

Éponine's health had improved tremendously. She was still not back to her "normal" self, but she'd steadily put weight back on as she began to eat more and more solid food and keep fluids down more predictably. Day by day, she spent more and more time out of bed, finally able to walk around the house and sit out in the courtyard with a book to get some fresh air. Pauline had come back, no longer fearing transmission of Éponine's disease. The house was clean again, without the unctuous presence of sickness present in every nook and cranny.

And, yet, Javert was often uneasy. He'd not yet told Éponine that Marius was alive, though the boy was likely healing at his grandfather's mansion. Eventually, he supposed, Éponine would probably find out. Marius would probably send her a letter when he was healthy again, and Éponine would be furious with Javert for withholding the truth. Ultimately, Javert would have to tell Éponine what he knew.

He had also been apprehensive about the arrival of this very day – his birthday. Today he was fifty-three years old. In many ways, he did not feel quite so aged as all that. He had a pretty, young wife who loved him, and he kept his body in good physical condition for a man over half a century of age. He was still strong, and fast, and he had stamina and energy to spare when he did his work. And, yet, he could hear a distant clock ticking, just as insistently as had the Swiss clock on Monsieur Gillenormand's mantelpiece.

There was the matter of offspring, of course, though he was working to address that with Éponine. What troubled Javert more distantly and persistently was the matter of Jean Valjean.

For nearly twenty years, Javert had tried to achieve victory in the case of Valjean. As hard as Javert tried, he could not bring the man to justice. Time and again, the fugitive had slipped through his fingers like so much sand. From prison after prison, from life after life, Valjean escaped. Each time meant dismal failure for Javert. It meant inconsolable moods of disappointment and anger; it meant reprobation and reprimand. If Javert could just nab the damned elusive outlaw, the man who had been the eternal thorn in his side, then his career would have had worth. It would have had meaning. If he could not catch Valjean before being forced into retirement, Javert would ultimately feel that his entire career had been a waste of time and effort – that his life's work had been for nothing.

Suddenly the rain falling gently outside the window was not so comforting. Suddenly the sky appeared significantly darker and gloomier, and the courtyard seemed shrouded in shadow. Javert sighed sadly and wallowed in silent melancholy for a good long while.

"Happy birthday," he heard from behind him, and he turned slowly over his shoulder to see Éponine sitting up in the bed, smiling gently at him as she swept her mahogany waves out of her eyes.

She looked positively divine as he gazed upon her form. Her alabaster skin was flawless in the dim gray light. Her chocolate eyes were drowsy pools of affection, her long lashes fluttering as she blinked sleep away. The loose neckline of her lacy white nightgown drooped carelessly off of one shoulder, revealing the sylphlike lines of her neck and collarbone.

Éponine grinned at him when she saw him hungrily taking in the sight of her, and she traced her lithe little fingertips over her décolleté seductively. She crawled from the bed, leaving the sheets and blankets rumpled behind her, and tiptoed over to stand beside Javert in front of the window. She gave him an impish little smile as she reached up to stroke Javert's cheek, coursing her fingernails gently through his graying beard.

"Happy birthday," she said again, her voice an eager whisper, and she pulled his cheek down so that his lips met hers in a soft kiss. When her pillowy lips touched his, Javert lost all thought of Jean Valjean. All fear of failure was gone. All the gloom surrounding his age vanished, and all concern over procreation dissipated.

All he knew was that he loved Éponine very much indeed, that she was his beautiful wife and that today was his birthday, and that he wanted to celebrate with her.

He closed the shutters gently, cloaking the room in darkness, and he led Éponine by the hand back to their bedside. Wordlessly, he stripped off his nightshirt, and then he peeled off Éponine's nightgown and cast the lacy garment aside. It pooled on the ground silently but gracefully. Javert beheld Éponine's nude form before him and thought again that she was gaining back some of the weight she'd lost in her sickness, and that she looked a good deal healthier than she had.

She reached out with trembling fingers and touched his face again, this time drifting her hands down his neck and shoulders, then down his arms until she laced her fingers with his. She guided his hands to her body and placed them upon the gentle arc of her waist. Javert felt his breath hitch at the feel of her satiny skin and the sweep of her womanly curves.

He brushed his hands softly up over her ribcage until his palms cupped her small, round breasts. He marveled at the feel of them, perfect orbs that they were, and Éponine tipped her head back and sighed at his touch as his thumbs drifted over her hardened nipples.

"You are the most stunning creature ever to walk the Earth," Javert breathed, as his hands swept around Éponine's shoulders and over the smooth expanse of her back. He took a step forward to close the gap between them, and his hardening member pressed insistently against Éponine's abdomen. She grinned at Javert's compliment and reached for his burgeoning erection, grasping it and stroking gently as the tip rubbed against her flat stomach.

The feel of her hand on him was heavenly, and only served to make Javert feel a strong acute need to be inside of her. He urged her down upon the back, and she situated herself so that she was propped up by pillows upon her back. Javert hovered above her, gazing down at her face with a burning stare.

He pushed her legs apart gently with his knee and reached between her thighs. She was moist and warm there, ready for him at last. Javert worried that it had been so very long since they'd made love that perhaps he would not last very long, and he resolved to wait to peak until Éponine had experienced her own release. To that end, he drifted his rough, calloused fingertips over the smooth folds of Éponine's womanhood. His fingers slid easily, moistened by her essence, and he hooked two of them inside of her and pulsed them slightly. Éponine gasped and gripped the sheets as she drove her head back against the pillows. Javert smiled crookedly, feeling quite pleased with himself, and twisted his fingers inside of her, rubbing his thumb insistently against her nub.

Éponine thrashed and arched her back, her little voice escaping her lips in a desperate moan as she bucked her hips against Javert's hand. He used his free hand to hold her hip steady, and he continued to relentlessly pulse his fingers inside of her and rub her powerfully. Éponine succumbed to his ministrations just a moment later, shaking fiercely as she clenched rhythmically around Javert's fingers. She gasped for air and cried out, and Javert felt his member throb demandingly as he watched her gratification play out before him.

Finally, he pulled his fingers from her and guided himself toward Éponine's entrance. She was still recovering from her climax, but she gladly parted her legs further to grant Javert entry and moaned in a low voice at the feel of his tip against her folds. He pushed into her gently, feeling her walls stretch to accommodate his girth. He grunted and groaned as he struggled to control the overwhelmingly pleasurable sensation of entering her; he tried to ignore the wet warmth surrounding him, the sound of her plaintive little voice, the need to claim her.

But he could not ignore any of it, and so he began to piston in and out of her slowly, picking up his tempo when he realized he would not last long no matter how disciplined he was. Beneath him, Éponine squeezed her eyes shut against the feel of his thrusts, but he wanted nothing more than to gaze into her chestnut eyes.

"Look at me," Javert whispered, in more of a plea than a command. Éponine complied, staring into his eyes with a wide, wild gaze fraught with anxiety. Javert knew what she was thinking. Today was too close to her bleeding for her to conceive. "It may not be today, Éponine," he said through gritted teeth as he further increased the tempo of his driving thrusts, "but it will happen."

Éponine nodded frantically, knowing that he was near his peak, and she bucked her hips up against him to further intensify every lunge. Finally, after longer than he would have thought himself able to last, Javert felt his ears ring and felt his pleasure detonate, and he spilled himself inside of her.

He panted feverishly as he collapsed onto the mattress beside Éponine, coursing his fingers through the freshly cropped graying hair upon his head. Éponine drew herself against him, smiling pleasantly as she planted gentle kisses upon his heaving chest.

"Éponine," Javert said seriously, and beside him, she frowned in response. Now that he'd been jarred from the pleasant birthday celebration by anxiety about conception, he'd been reminded of another disagreeable reality. "There is somewhere I should like to take you today, if you'd care to get dressed."

"All right," Éponine said cautiously, slowly sitting up. Her hair fell in beautiful, disheveled waves about her face, making it more difficult to answer her honestly when she asked, "Where are we going?"

Javert swallowed heavily and reached up to cup Éponine's cheek in his rough hand. "We are going to see your old friend. We are going to see Marius Pontmercy."

Éponine blinked as she stared at Javert for a long moment. "You are taking me to Marius' grave?" she asked in a quiet, quivering voice, not seeming to understand her husband's words.

Javert swallowed heavily and pulled himself off of the bed, sitting up to face Éponine. It suddenly seemed grossly inappropriate to have this conversation completely in the nude, so he covered himself as chastely as he could with the bed sheets. Éponine did the same, pulling the sheet up over her bare chest and staring at Javert with trepidation.

"No," Javert answered finally, his own voice full of shame as he realized how deeply he'd deceived Éponine by withholding knowledge from her. He sighed and stared into the wide brown eyes that awaited an explanation. "Éponine… Marius is alive."

"What?" Her voice was a barely audible whisper, incredulous and faint, and her eyes suddenly became deep pools flooded with tears. "What do you mean?"

Javert licked his lips. "When I came back that first night and told you he was dead, I honestly thought he was. I saw him get shot with my own eyes. I saw him fall from the barricade."

"Then how do you know he is alive?" Éponine's voice wavered as she tried to keep her composure, clutching the sheet anxiously to her chest.

Javert pursed his lips and sighed again. "The next day, he was not among the dead. I eventually found him at the Hôtel-Dieu and informed his grandfather. As far as I know, he is at Monsieur Gillenormand's house now, recuperating."

Éponine was silent for a good long while, and Javert could not look at her. He looked instead toward the shutters, around which just enough light peeked to slightly illuminate the room. He could still hear the sound of pattering rain outside, gentle and calm.

"And… why did you not tell me this… for weeks?" Éponine asked at last.

"I'm not really quite certain why I could not bring myself to tell you," Javert answered truthfully, forcing himself to look back at Éponine. A silent tear trickled down her alabaster cheek, and her lower lip trembled. "I'm sorry," Javert added helplessly.

"I shall not ruin your birthday by being angry with you," Éponine told him, nodding resolutely, "and, in any case, we might visit him any other day. I very much doubt that he's particularly anxious to see me; I've not seen him in a year and a half anyway."

She shrugged as though it was of no matter to her, and Javert put his lips in a straight line. He knew very well that it did matter to her that Marius was alive. Furthermore, he recalled how Marius had asked after Éponine just before the battle had begun, and he thought that it would matter to Marius that Éponine had survived a bout with cholera. Why he was so interested in facilitating a meeting between the two of them, even Javert could not say. Perhaps he simply wanted to get it over with, seeing it as a necessary interaction that was bound to happen whether or not he liked it.

"I had thought to take you today," Javert said after a moment, "since I am not working."

"It's your birthday," Éponine reminded him, as though he were daft. "You wish to visit Marius on your birthday?"

Javert reached to cup Éponine's cheek in his hand and leaned forward to touch his lips very gently to hers. "I wish to make you happy," he said.

As Javert escorted Éponine down the sidewalk that led to Monsieur Gillenormand's street, he thought that perhaps it would have been wise to hire a carriage. Fortunately, the rain had stopped falling before they had left the house, but the streets and sidewalks were riddled with puddles and streaked with mire. Poor Éponine had to walk while trying desperately to keep her skirts clear of the muck, and Javert's own shiny black boots were getting a slick coating of mud. They would hardly seem like a bourgeois couple when they showed up upon Monsieur Gillenormand's doorstep asking to visit his invalid, rebellious grandson.

Indeed, as they walked, Javert quietly reminded Éponine, "Curtsy at every chance you get. Better to curtsy unnecessarily than to not do it when it is called for. Try to speak politely; call everyone 'Monsieur'. Hold your head high."

"I will not embarrass you," Éponine said angrily, through gritted teeth. She dodged a puddle and said, "Anyway, Marius knows who I am."

She'd worn a cream gown that Javert had had made for her not long ago. The material was covered in a pattern of pink roses and had a pink satin sash around her tiny waist. The matching dusty pink bonnet only served to make Éponine look a bit like a sugary confection, and Javert had to admit to himself that it seemed a bit much for her. The cloying, gaudy pattern and color of the ensemble overwhelmed her waifish figure and her impish personality. Nonetheless, he'd told her she looked lovely after she'd chosen the dress and he'd laced her into it, smiling tightly and nodding his approval.

Now, as they strode nervously up to the Gillenormand mansion, Javert tugged anxiously at the hem of his black uniform jacket, ensuring that the tassels of his epaulets fell neatly about his shoulders. He'd polished the buttons of his jacket this morning and had carefully trimmed his beard, though even he was not entirely certain why he cared so much to look dignified in the presence of Marius Pontmercy or his grandfather. He knew that it probably came down to a deep-seated desire to forget about the half-gypsy urchin he'd once been, and to not let anyone else know that such a boy had ever existed in the first place.

He cleared his throat fretfully and knocked upon the door as he had nearly two weeks earlier. The same butler answered the door that had done so then, and Javert tipped his hat respectfully.

"Monsieur le Commissaire," the butler acknowledged with a little bow, and then, turning to Éponine, he said with a hint of curiosity, "Madame. Please do come in."

Javert guided Éponine into the expansive marble entryway of the mansion, and he carefully scraped his boots off before following her inside. The butler shut the door behind them and asked curiously, "How may I assist you today, Monsieur le Commissaire?"

Before Javert could answer, a timid voice came from above, up on the second-story hallway that overlooked the entryway.

"Éponine?" Marius smiled in surprise down at her, the well-groomed girl who'd been a grimy street rascal the last time he'd seen her.

"Marius!" Éponine grinned widely when she saw him standing above the foyer, leaning heavily upon a cane for support, wearing a half-buttoned cotton shirt and open waistcoat, his hair disheveled. Javert frowned, wishing that perhaps the boy would have been a bit more covered and a bit less charmingly unkempt when first Éponine laid eyes upon him.

The butler stared in surprise as Éponine rushed past him in an entirely uncivilized manner, dashing uninvited up the sweeping stairway to meet Marius upon the landing above. Javert sighed and removed his hat, tucking it under his arm and murmuring to the butler,

"May I, please, Monsieur?" He gestured after Éponine, and the butler nodded, bewildered. It was obvious his young master knew the over-anxious young woman who'd dashed up the stairs, so he beckoned for the embarrassed police officer to follow.

By the time Javert made it up the long, winding staircase, Éponine had already followed Marius into a small room, and the two were chatting happily, sitting in chairs facing one another. Marius sat in a rocking chair, a knitted blanket across his lap, and Éponine sat opposite him in a small wingback, her face animated and bright.

"Commissaire Javert," Marius acknowledged happily when Javert stepped cautiously through the threshold, beckoning him inside the room. There were no more chairs, so Javert stood awkwardly beside Éponine. "I must thank you very kindly, Monsieur. If not for you identifying me at the Hôtel Dieu, my grandfather would have thought me dead, and I may well have died from disease in the hospital." He looked very seriously at Éponine. "Your husband saved my life, 'Ponine. Don't you forget that."

Éponine reached to take Javert's hand in hers, and she kissed the back of his palm gently, a move that for some reason made Javert want to puff out his chest a bit in the presence of the young student. But Marius seemed unmoved by the gesture, and he continued,

"The only bad news, 'Ponine, is that I've received a notice that I'm to be tried in court."

Éponine's chestnut eyes suddenly went wide with fear. "Tried? With what crime?"

"Treason," Marius said, the last remnants of his boyish smile vanishing as he looked nervously down at his fingernails. "They're rounding up every republican they can prove was active in the rebellion and trying us all."

Javert knew this to be true; he'd heard talk of it at the station. Of course, Javert himself had nothing to do with determining whether or not the republicans were to be tried. Such decisions went as high in the government as the king himself. The talk was that republicans were to be sentenced to death if found guilty, though some might receive commuted sentences if deemed appropriate.

Éponine glared up at Javert. "There must be something you can do," she insisted, and Javert suddenly felt quite angry with her. Why would there be anything he, a lowly Commissaire de Police, could do about the government's trials of treasonous republicans in a well-known revolt? Furthermore, even if there were something he could do, what impetus did he have to risk his reputation – his career – upon this boy?

Rather than embarrassing both himself and Éponine by lecturing her here, he simply cleared his throat and pursed his lips and said quietly, "I am but one police officer in the Parisian police force. These are matters for the national government. Alas, there is nothing I can do."

"But you were there!" Éponine persisted, squeezing Javert's hand insistently. "You could testify for him, couldn't you? Wouldn't you?"

Now Javert was downright enraged, and he pulled his hand from Éponine's and tugged impatiently upon his jacket. "We shall discuss the matter later," he said tersely. "Let us talk of something else."

"There is something else I wished to tell you, 'Ponine," said Marius, and Javert thought irritably to himself that he disliked the casual way in which Marius threw about her abbreviated name. "Before the rebellion, I was in Saint-Michel, and a girl was there with her father. A bourgeois girl; I'd never seen her before. They were giving alms to the poor. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life."

Éponine said nothing. She forced a smile and nodded, urging Marius to continue. Seeing the effect of Marius' words on Éponine, and noting how oblivious Marius was to that effect, Javert interjected crossly,

"How do you know the man was her father?"

Marius flicked his eyes up to Javert, surprised by the interruption. "I… I assumed as much," he admitted, "for he was far older than her and held her upon his arm."

"I am far older than Éponine," Javert pointed out defensively, "and often walk about with her upon my arm. I should think that many a young man has looked at her desirously, assuming me to be her father. For all you know, Monsieur Pontmercy, that man was her husband."

Marius furrowed his brow and swallowed heavily, looking confused at how sensitively Javert had reacted to the situation. "Yes. I suppose that is true, Commissaire," he acknowledged. He looked a bit shaken as he turned back to Éponine and said, "In any case, she was very lovely indeed, and she smiled at me several times rather flirtatiously. Then your father and mother approached them and tried to scam them into giving them money, and just as I was about to storm up and give your father what-for, the girl handed over a few francs to your mother, and they were left alone after that. They were gone before I had the fortitude to approach them."

Javert thought that this young woman sounded like something of a harlot, smiling flirtatiously at young men she did not know, but he merely frowned sourly and said nothing of it. Éponine, meanwhile, looked heartbroken. The fact that she looked so dejected only served to further degrade Javert's mood. Why should Éponine be upset that Marius had found a girl toward whom to direct his affections? After all, Éponine was Javert's wife now, and had been so for nearly a year and a half. All this pining after Marius needed to stop. Now.

"I need to find her, Éponine," Marius continued relentlessly, and Éponine scowled as though he'd rubbed salt into a wound. "I need to know who she is. I've not seen her in weeks, obviously, but she's all that's been on my mind since I woke up after the battle. Help me find her. Please. You're the only one I know who could track down a person in a city like Paris."

Éponine looked as though she'd swallowed something with a horrible taste, and she grimaced at Marius as she tried to force a smile. "You didn't catch her name?" she pressed. "You know nothing of her? How am I to find her?"

"I did hear her father… the man who was with her… I did hear him call her 'Cosette' as they were leaving." Marius gazed at Éponine with bright, eager green eyes, and Éponine looked as though she'd had a revelation. "What is it?" Marius asked.

"I grew up with a girl called Cosette," Éponine said, and though she continued talking to Marius, Javert did not hear anything else that she said. He felt his insides grow cold.

Cosette.

When Jean Valjean had been with the dying prostitute, Fantine, in Montreuil-sur-Mer, the woman's last words had been of her child, Cosette. When Valjean had gone to Montfermeil to fetch the girl, Javert had searched for her… Cosette. It was not a particularly common name; in fact, it had been the only time in Javert's life that he'd heard the name. He felt his breath come quick and uncontrolled through his nostrils as he tried to steady himself against the revelation that Jean Valjean had been wandering around Saint-Michel undetected.

He would help Éponine find this girl, this Cosette, but not for Marius. He would help Éponine track down Cosette, because where Cosette was, there would be Jean Valjean.

For the next two weeks, Javert's every waking moment was consumed by the thought of seizing Valjean.

At first, he searched for the child Cosette by looking through official reports and accounts available to him as a police officer. There was absolutely no record of a Cosette over the past ten years, not one young enough to be the correct person. Javert visited various abbeys and girls' schools to see if they'd had a student by the name of Cosette over the past decade. If any had, they did not admit it, and the records they gave to Javert did not show it.

He searched the census to see if any households listed a young woman named "Cosette" living in them. Javert spent hour after hour poring over the tomes of the census record, by candlelight and by early dawn, whenever he was not on shift.

"You do not have to try so hard," Éponine told him patiently one day. "Marius saw her once. He's a fickle boy. He'll find another girl."

"I've told you why this is important to me, Éponine," Javert said with a little irritated growl, and she stepped away from his desk with a sigh. He had indeed informed Éponine that Cosette would lead him to Valjean. Éponine had admitted that she was not certain whether or not it had been Valjean who'd come to fetch Cosette from the Thénardiers' inn when they were younger, but she did know that a man came and took Cosette away.

Then, one afternoon, about two weeks after Marius had told them about Cosette, Éponine marched proudly into the house and shut the door triumphantly behind her.

"Where have you been?" Javert asked testily. He had been off of work for nearly an hour and a half, and when he'd come home, he'd found a note on the dining room table that read, 'I shall return soon. Do not worry after me,' though, of course, he did worry terribly. It was nearly ten o'clock at night, and the thought of Éponine wandering the streets so late made Javert sick with anxiety.

"I have found her," Éponine said smugly, putting her hands on her hips, and it took a moment for Javert to realize what she meant.

"Where?" he asked breathlessly, rushing over to the entryway to grasp Éponine's shoulders.

"I still have connections in Saint-Michel," Éponine said in a pompous voice, as she untied her simple bonnet and hung it on the hook by the door. "I asked a girl I knew well when I lived there whether or not she remembered a blonde bourgeois bird flitting around the slums about a month ago. She did, and she told me that a few members of my father's gang followed them back to their house to stake it out for a robbery."

Javert narrowed his eyes. "They robbed them?" he asked incredulously.

"They decided against it, as it turns out, and settled on the house across the street. In any case, the old man and Cosette live in a house on rue Plumet."

Javert felt his heart begin to race. Rue Plumet. It would be easy enough for Javert to track them down now. Not right this instant, of course, for it was the middle of the night and he would need to formulate a clear and methodical plan of action.

He gripped Éponine's shoulders more tightly and brought her against his chest firmly. "My love," he said breathlessly. "You have never stopped being my little informant, have you?"

"No, never," she said with a chuckle. Her little fingers worked his silver buttons and she murmured against the wool of his jacket, "Tomorrow you shall have your prize… what you've been chasing for twenty years."

The very thought made Javert feel dizzy with anticipation, and he kissed Éponine's hair enthusiastically. He held here there in the entryway for a long moment, gratefully inhaling her lavender scent as he thanked God for her. Hour after hour he'd labored these past weeks, trying to find the girl who would lead him to Valjean. Year after year he'd pursued the fugitive. Now Éponine had given him the only clue he would need to achieve his goal.

"The timing is right once more," he heard her say softly, and she reached up to brush her fingertips against his salt-and-pepper beard gently.

Javert was overcome with a sudden want for her, and he replied smoothly, "Then you shall conceive this very night, my dear."

She leaned up to kiss him, her lips drifting slowly toward his. Javert did not have the patience for such leisurely motion, not when he was so aflame with excitement over the news she'd brought home. He drove her up against the corridor wall and crushed her mouth with his. The pins holding her hair in a neat bun began to come loose as he pushed her head against the wall, sending her hair cascading down in waves. Javert entangled his fingers in Éponine's undulating mahogany hair, gripping her scalp as his tongue shoved itself between her pillowy lips. He nibbled upon her bottom lip and coursed his tongue firmly over the roof of her mouth, suckling upon her tongue and groaning wantonly into the kiss.

She squealed helplessly, realizing that this act would be neither slow nor gentle. Her squeals of protest turned into little happy sighs as she gave into Javert completely, her tense body going slack as he pinned her to the wall. His burgeoning erection pushed against her, struggling through layers of fabric, and soon Javert was almost painfully hard in his trousers. He reached down to unbutton his uniform pants and relieve the pressure against his member. When he took a slight step back to do so, Éponine began hiking up the layers of her petticoats and her calico dress.

Javert pulled his throbbing manhood forth from its cloth confines and stared into Éponine's brown eyes hungrily for a brief moment. Then he grasped Éponine's tiny waist and hoisted her up, pinning her even more firmly against the wall as she wrapped her legs around his strong hips.

He drove himself into her, entering her ready body in one thrust. Éponine cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, and Javert instantly began to drive her ruthlessly against the wall. He held fast to her thighs as she gripped his shoulders, and he pushed into her again and again as their moaning voices mingled in the silent, dark hallway.

Each time Javert entered her body was like a little proclamation of victory. Metrically, he could hear the words chanting in his head like a refrain… He is mine. He is mine. I have won. He is mine.

Javert was so overcome with the elation of conquest, both in his career and of his wife, that he was not paying attention to whether or not Éponine achieved her own climax before he did. Before he knew what was happening, his ears were ringing and a great roar of triumph was escaping Javert's lips. He shuddered and tingled as he emptied himself into Éponine's trembling body. As he infused her with his seed, the glorious thought that he might, even at this moment, be giving her his child sent chills over his entire form.

He pulled out of her as he caught his breath and set Éponine on the ground. He kept her pinned to the wall for a good long moment, and he kissed the top of her head again as he'd done before. She was grinning widely up at him, her brown eyes glistening through the veil of her thick lashes.

"I don't often tell you," Javert admitted breathlessly, shaking his head in admittance as his uniformed chest heaved heavily against hers. "I don't tell you often enough. But you are perfect, Éponine, perfect in every way. God will give us a child. I know it will happen. And in the meantime, you have given me the gift of significance. You have no idea how important this information is to me… how important you are to me. I love you."

He tucked himself back into his trousers and buttoned them with trembling fingers, stalking quietly down the hallway toward their bedroom to get cleaned up, leaving Éponine standing shaking and smiling behind him.

Javert lurked down rue Plumet as slowly as he could force himself to do, holding his club behind his back and trying to steady his breaths.

In one of these houses was Jean Valjean, the criminal he'd been chasing for nigh on two decades now. Javert had deduced the house by looking over census records for rue Plumet and using process of elimination. Now, as he arrived in front of the rather unassuming brick façade that held his prey, Javert could scarcely keep himself from dashing up to the door and kicking it down.

But as Javert approached the front stoop, he noticed an odd stillness about the house, given that it was noon in the summertime. None of the windows were open, despite the fact that it was stiflingly warm outside and all the other houses on the street had their windows flung open for ventilation. Nearly all the curtains were drawn shut, and there was an eerie quiet about the place. Javert furrowed his brow as he raised his hand to knock firmly upon the door. He suspected that there would be no answer.

He was right. After knocking twice more and waiting nearly ten minutes in silence, Javert pulled a small paper from his pocket and checked the address. This was the correct house, so where was the old fool? Javert angrily kicked at a small stone on the stoop as he realized with a surge of rage that, once again, Valjean had slipped through his fingers.

He stormed down the front steps and made his way around the back of the house. He had in his possession a warrant for Valjean's arrest, so he was more than entitled as a member of the Parisian police to force his way into the home, and that was precisely what he was going to do. He entered the garden through its wrought-iron gate and shut the creaky portal behind him, weaving his way through the overgrown mass of greenery until he reached a set of double doors.

Javert knocked confidently upon the double doors, thinking that perhaps there was a small outside chance that an inhabitant in the house had not heard him at the front door.

"Police!" he called in a stern voice, one that betrayed him of his anger and frustration with being foiled once again by the elusive fugitive. To Javert's utter lack of astonishment, he was met with silence again. Pursing his lips and huffing air out irately, Javert tried opening the double doors, and was unsurprised to find them locked. He shoved his shoulder firmly against one of the doors. Nothing happened. Javert took a step away from the doorway and rushed forward, hurtling himself against the locked entryway, and stumbled into the house when the door crashed open.

"I am Commissaire Javert with the Paris Police," he called into the house when he had his bearings, glancing around the dining room in which he stood. "I have a warrant for the arrest of Jean Valjean. If there is anyone in this house, I command you to make yourself known at once."

He waited for a moment, shifting on his feet and hearing only the creak of his boots on a loose wooden floorboard. He took another step into the house, noticing for the first time that there were linen sheets covering most of the furniture. The divans and chairs in the parlor ahead of him were all covered, and as he proceeded down the hallway and peered into several small bedrooms, he saw that they had been done up in such a way that it looked as though they'd be left alone for quite a while.

Javert curiously stepped into the bedroom at the end of the hall, a coral-colored room with a four-poster bed. There was a vanity covered with a linen sheet, and Javert tore the sheet from the furniture. Beneath the sheet, there was a perfectly arranged assortment of women's items, including a silver hairbrush, perfume bottles, cosmetics containers, and a hand mirror.

This was Cosette's room, then. Javert crushed the linen sheet in his hand angrily as he thought of Valjean passing the last nine years with the girl at liberty. For nearly the past decade, Javert had endured nightmares of the fugitive. He'd felt himself to be worthless and devoid of accomplishment even as he had been promoted through the ranks of the police force. He'd undergone depression and paranoia, all because this criminal, this Valjean, had an uncanny knack for escape and evasion.

And here Javert was, standing in the home this absconder had built for himself… for himself and the little girl he'd taken into hiding and dared to call his daughter. Here Javert was, standing among the physical evidence that Valjean's never-ending trickery had been a roaring success, that Javert had been cuckolded time and again.

After Valjean had taken Cosette from Montfermeil, Éponine had gone on to live with her terrible father and mother and had fallen into poverty. Cosette, on the other hand, had been spirited away by a mysterious benefactor who knew nothing but deception, and the two of them had merrily lived a luxurious life built on lies for the last nine years. In what way was that fair? Under what system of rules and laws did that make any sense?

Overcome with rage and furious with how the situation had played out for everyone involved, Javert clenched his fists at his sides and breathed heavily through his nostrils. Impulsively, he swept his fist across the beautiful vanity in front of him, sending Cosette's belongings crashing to the wooden floor. The silver mirror clattered and smashed into pieces, shards of glass lying splintered upon the floorboards. The perfume bottles shattered and the putrid odors of five different fragrances mingled at once, making Javert feel nauseated from his anger.

Ignoring the mess he'd created, Javert stormed from the bedroom and stomped down the hallway. He exited the house the same way he'd come in, through the double doors in the back, and vowed to himself that there would be no rest for his soul until Valjean was finally in his grasp.

Javert was so distracted and irritated as he tried to complete paperwork at the police station that afternoon that his Contrôleur forced him to go home.

"Are you ill, Javert?" the superior officer asked, and Javert pursed his lips as he abruptly tucked his quill into the inkwell before him.

"No, Monsieur," he answered tersely, almost disrespectfully. His tone garnered him an odd look from the Contrôleur, who was used to receiving deference from Javert.

"Perhaps you ought to take the rest of the afternoon off," the Contrôleur suggested cautiously. "You've worked two weeks in a row without a break, Javert."

"I assure you, Monsieur le Contrôleur, that I am perfectly fine. I am of an unpleasant mood; that is all, and for that I apologize," Javert said, his voice flat and tired. He glanced down at the paper before him and realized the Contrôleur was staring at the same thing. They were both reading the page and seemingly came to an understanding at the same moment.

The page was an arrest warrant, and it was supposed to be for a man called Bergeron. Instead, upon the line for the warranted individual, Javert had written the name 'Jean Valjean.'

The Contrôleur chewed on his lip thoughtfully as Javert stared apologetically up at him. "Please go home now, Javert," the Contrôleur said gently, "and come back in two days' time, if you're feeling of a better mind."

"I am very sorry, Monsieur le Contrôleur," Javert mumbled remorsefully, rising slowly from his desk and bowing to his superior.

As he walked slowly home from the station, Javert felt more of a failure than he ever had before. He kicked a stone and stepped up to his doorway, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open dejectedly.

"Éponine," he said flatly as he shut the door behind him, "It's only me."

She appeared from the study, carrying a parchment hand fan with which she batted air at her sweat-sheened face. She looked uncomfortably warm in her full calico dress, and had taken off the petticoats beneath because of the heat outside.

"What are you doing home at this hour?" Éponine asked curiously, sweeping damp hairs away from her face. "Were the old man and the girl at the house?"

"No."

Javert skirted past her after giving her the simple, curt one-word answer, shuffling into the bedroom and quickly unbuttoning his uniform jacket. He was objectionably warm, as well, and the cotton shirt he wore beneath his jacket was sodden with sweat. As he peeled the shirt off, he heard Éponine press inquisitively from the doorway,

"No? They weren't there?"

"No, Éponine. I said 'no.' I do not wish to speak of it," Javert snapped, and, truly, he did not. He'd spent hours ruminating on his failure at the police station, and he needed to get his mind on something else. He had the urge to drink, as he always did when he failed to catch Valjean, but he felt he needed to resist that urge for Éponine's sake.

He kicked off his dress shoes and stockings and pushed past Éponine to go into the study. She followed him like a puppy, fanning herself all the while. Javert collapsed into a wingback chair in front of the fireplace, though of course it was far too hot to light a fire. He stared at the smoke-stained bricks and rubbed anxiously at his forehead.

Suddenly Éponine appeared in front of him, and Javert gritted his teeth as he prepared himself for her to question him again on the matter of Valjean. Instead, she merely said softly,

"Is there anything I can get for you? Anything I can do for you?"

Javert shut his eyes, unable to look into her wide-eyed, concerned, chestnut gaze.

"Perhaps a wet cloth," he said finally. "Thank you."

Éponine's little footsteps crossed the room, and then after a few minutes Javert felt a cool, damp sensation on the back of his neck as she pressed a washcloth there.

He cracked his eyes and saw Éponine kneeling beside the wingback chair, her hair scrappily pulled up into an untidy bun. Her mustard-colored calico dress billowed out around her as she knelt beside Javert, and she smiled gently when he looked at her. In that instant, Javert thought rather sadly that an utter angel was tending to him, and he was being nothing but sour to her.

"We will find him," Éponine promised, raking her fingernails through the graying hair upon Javert's head.

Javert sighed deeply. "This is something I must do," he said somberly. "I appreciate your help, Éponine. Truly, I do. I would not have found the house in rue Plumet without you, and it was indeed his house. But you must understand that this is a man I've been chasing since before you were even born. It is my duty to find him myself."

Éponine could have snidely pointed out then that Javert had struggled for decades to track down Valjean, and that Éponine herself had located the man's house in a matter of days. She did no such thing. Instead, she simply nodded in understanding.

"I am going to speak with your father," Javert informed Éponine abruptly, and she looked amused all of a sudden.

"What makes you think he will help the police?" Éponine balked, and Javert frowned.

"You told me that your father was irritated when Valjean left with Cosette, that he'd felt cheated and underpaid. I believe that if I can convince your father that the man I am seeking is the same man who once cheated him, then your father will have an impetus to see that man behind bars."

Éponine scoffed. "Or, my father will find Valjean himself and rob him for all he's worth and kill him, and leave you out of it entirely. My father does not make deals with the police."

Javert pinched his lips. "I believe he may this time," he said defensively. "There is a warrant for your father's arrest. I saw it with my own eyes today. He is once again wanted for robbery. Since he has so many arrests, the judge is unlikely to be lenient in sentencing. I may be able to get the arrest warrant expunged, if your father helps me locate Valjean."

Éponine narrowed her eyes. "And why are you telling me all of this?" she asked. "You know I have not spoken to my father in a year and a half. I can not help you convince him of anything."

Javert reached to touch his palm to Éponine's soft cheek. "You don't have to do anything at all," he promised. "This is my concern. My obligation. I shall achieve my objective."

Éponine's lips curled up sadly, and she placed her little hand over Javert's upon her cheek. "I have no doubt at all that you shall," she replied, moving her lips to kiss his fingers.

As Javert made love to Éponine that night, he was sorely distracted, so much so that he almost could not complete the act. He'd promised her to try every night to give her a child, and so he did. But as he moved atop her, their bodies entwined in a perspiring mass of tangled limbs, his mind was elsewhere. He should have been able to focus, for Éponine looked resplendent, as she lay nude beneath him in the moonlight. She panted and said his name in a desperately alluring voice, trying to draw him back into the moment, but all Javert could think was how badly he'd failed today. The persistent contemplation of his failure made it difficult to stay erect and to keep thrusting, let alone to reach completion. Only when Javert steadfastly reassured himself that he would not fail again, that justice would be his and that there would be no respite until he had prospered, could he empty himself into Éponine. When he did, it was with a frenzied shout of release.

He stared down at Éponine apologetically, and she simply smiled sadly up at him with sympathy in her deep brown eyes, stroking gently at his bearded cheek.

"I love you," he promised, gasping for air. It had taken him far more effort and time than usual to make love tonight, and he was truly exhausted.

"I know," she assured him, nodding slightly. "Thank you… I know this was not what you wanted to do tonight."

Javert pulled himself off of Éponine and debated whether or not to wear his nightshirt to bed. It was so hot outside, even in the night, that he thought he'd be far more comfortable sleeping nude, so he simply lay down beside her.

"I always want you, Éponine," Javert said, but his voice sounded dull and tired.

She only smiled again, looking serene in the gray moonlight. "It will all be worth it when I bear you a child," she promised. "There are many ways in which a man feels worth."

Javert considered her words as he drifted off to sleep, lulled into slumber by the exhaustion of making love with such endurance. Perhaps Éponine was right. Perhaps catching Valjean was not the only way in which Javert's life would have meaning or significance.

He tried to imagine himself as a father, to either a small boy that he would raise to become a strong man, or to a little girl that he would raise protectively as she blossomed into a woman. Neither he nor Éponine had experienced the impact of a loving father in their lives, but Javert was of the opinion that fathers could be very helpful indeed in making children feel valuable, and in shaping children's futures properly. Could Javert be a good father? If he was successful in giving Éponine a child, and then he proved himself to be a good father, would he then feel the sense of self-worth he'd been missing his entire life?

Javert slept heavily in the midnight heat as he dreamed of many things: of Valjean behind bars, of Éponine full with child, of himself as an old man who had accomplished many things for himself and his family. He dreamed of a good, full life – and of the feeling of significance he would sense someday.

A/N: Sorry that this chapter took several days to get up! I promise to write more quickly, especially if I get reviews! Reviews help me write quickly! (wink, wink)

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

A/N: This smut-tastic chapter (warning: it is pretty darn graphic) is a gift for therainbowstar, who mentioned that she particularly enjoyed a more dominant Javert… you have been warned. Mwah hahaha.

Javert's peaceful dreams of a life well lived were rudely interrupted when his visions began to grow darker in his sleep. As the night wore on, the images of a happy family gave way to a picture of Javert, old and lonely, having been abandoned by Éponine because he'd been unable to give her a child. His reverie of accomplishment, of having put Valjean in jail, was replaced by an apparition of his own endlessly wandering soul – never, until the day he died, able to catch the rogue.

When Javert startled awake and realized it was already morning, he found himself drenched in sweat and angry at his mind for playing such cruel tricks upon him. The previous night, he'd fallen asleep with at least some measure of comfort to soothe him, but the hours had allowed nightmares to form. Now Javert found himself so disturbed that he could scarcely think clearly.

He slipped from the bed and ambled across the room, heading toward the kitchen in search of a mug of water to quench his desiccation. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Éponine was still fast asleep, peaceful and serene in slumber as the morning sun cast warm, bright light upon her alabaster skin.

For some reason, it angered him that she could find such peace when he could not. Why should Éponine have everything handed to her now, just because Javert had thought it fit to snatch her from the streets and bring her into his home? She hadn't a care in the world anymore, had she? She had a comfortable bed, all the clothes she wanted, plenty of food to eat, and a husband to pay for it all. Meanwhile, Javert worked endless hours and struggled with the demons of his past, all while aging relentlessly and feeling as though his life were passing him by without having achieved much of anything.

Javert stood in the threshold of the bedroom door, nude and overheated, and sipped thoughtfully upon his mug of water. He stared at Éponine for a long moment, feeling his anger subside a tiny bit as he remembered how ill she had been and the misfortunes she had borne for much of her short life.

It was small wonder that she wanted a child so badly. If Javert was so acutely aware of his inexorable aging, so too must be Éponine. She could see his hair getting grayer; she was not blind. And he knew she would make a wonderful mother, too. She would have patience and would attend closely to the child, but would be relaxed and calm enough to allow the youngster to enjoy childhood. If they were to have a boy, Éponine would not pamper nor coddle him, but would allow him to become a rough-and-tumble, masculine little thing. If they were to have a girl, she would strike the perfect balance between refinement and individuality in the child.

Éponine was young enough to chase children around with youthful energy, and yet mature enough to handle any problem motherhood could hurl at her. Javert could see her now, playing with their brood – he could hear their mingling giggles echoing through the house. Javert sighed and took another sip of his water, thinking that, indeed, Éponine was the ideal wife and the ideal mother.

And, yet, this decadent daydream was all very dependent on her conceiving Javert's issue. Why did he care so much about all of this now, when they'd already been married for a year and a half and he'd hardly given the entire proposition so much as a thought? It was all that had gone so horribly wrong in recent months, Javert thought ruefully to himself. From the disaster in Lyon to Éponine's bout of cholera, from the bloody rebellion to his failure to capture Valjean… so many events had unfolded recently that had forced Javert to reevaluate his life and his accomplishments, and in the face of most of it all, he felt entirely helpless. He'd failed in Lyon. He'd not been able to cure Éponine's disease himself. He'd been caught undercover, and then there had been the empty house in rue Plumet. None of it was anything Javert could fix. This, this matter of a child, was something over which he bore some semblance of control. It felt, at times, as though his home life and the prospect of a family was the single thing in his life over which he had any control whatsoever… and Javert was a man who liked very much to be in control.

He was not to go to work today, or so his Contrôleur had commanded him. He was to take the day off and recuperate from the trauma of his failure. Javert contemplated this fact with a sour, sickly sort of regret. He'd demonstrated such deep distraction that his own superior officer had deemed him unfit for duty. Was Javert falling apart at the seams professionally? Was this the beginning of the end of his career?

No. He would not have it that way. He would prosper at work; he would show the Contrôleur and the inspectors he commanded that he was just as formidable a policeman as ever he'd been. When he returned to work tomorrow, it would be with fire in his veins and steel in his eyes, and he would show no sign of weakness again.

Javert was suddenly overcome with a subconscious need to prove himself to just about everyone in the world. He would prove to himself that he was worth something, that he was not a timeworn, malfunctioning shell of a man. He would prove to his coworkers that he could and would perform his duties without fail or question. And he would prove to Éponine that he was more than virile, that she had chosen correctly in choosing him.

His mind was abruptly flooded with indecent images of her, as he stared at her sleeping form, and he could not shake them. He remembered the time a few months earlier, when he'd torn the pink dress and all of her undergarments from her body and had spanked her and commanded her to finish for him. Never in his life had he felt such intense desire for her (or indeed, for any woman) as he had that day, and now as he relived it in his mind, he found himself tingling and growing restless.

Well, Javert thought with a bit of a crooked smile, it was one way to spend his forced time off of work.

He stalked over to the bed and set his now-empty mug down upon the bedside table. He stood beside the bed and stared down at Éponine, chewing upon his lip as he watched her roll toward him in her sleep. She made a rather endearing little noise as she did, and Javert wondered mischievously what other noises she could make for him. There was something about her fragility, her delicate and girlish looks and charm, which made it all the more fascinating to think of bossing her about and commanding her. Javert thought that nothing could possibly be more effective at the moment at relieving his tension and anxiety than to have his way with her.

He peeled the thin blanket back from her huddled form and saw that she, too, had fallen asleep nude. As Javert removed the blanket, inch after inch of her thin but curvaceous form was revealed to him, and he swallowed heavily.

"Mmph," he heard Éponine murmur, and her little hands reached for the blanket to pull it back up. As she moved, her weight shifted and revealed her chest to Javert. He gazed upon her round, pillowy breasts and imagined suckling roughly upon them. His eyes traveled up her neck, where he wanted to ravage her with his tongue and teeth, and to the lips that needed to be attacked with savage kisses. Javert felt his heart begin to accelerate, felt blood begin to flow to his groin, and had difficulty controlling himself from simply mounting Éponine right then and there.

But, no. He would take his time. This would be a test of his stamina, of his willpower, and he would not fail here as he had done in so many other facets of his life. Surging with determination, Javert reached down and shook Éponine's shoulder a bit more crudely than he would normally do in order to wake her.

She startled awake with a gasp and looked up at him, surprised to see him standing in front of her, completely naked and half-hard, staring down at her with a steely and unyielding gaze.

"Good morning," she said shakily, and as she pushed herself up onto her elbows, she surveyed Javert more closely. She seemed to pick up on the way his breath came raggedly through his nostrils, the way his muscles were tensed, and how he'd squared his jaw in an expression of resolve. She quickly seemed to realize that he'd woken her for sex, and not for the slow and romantic sex to which she was accustomed. "Is there something I can do for you?" she asked teasingly, and her lithe little fingertips stroked gently down her naked décolleté until they reached her firm nipples. She batted her long, dark lashes at Javert, which only served to make him harder, and with a low rumble he reached down and scooped her off of the bed. He swept one strong arm around her back and the other beneath her knees, and he lifted her light figure effortlessly off of the mattress.

"Yes," he answered in a growl as he manipulated her body so that she straddled his waist and gripped his muscular shoulders. "There is something you can do for me, Éponine. Conceive and bear me a child… when I'm done playing with you."

He took three strides toward the threshold and pushed Éponine back against the door. It slammed shut with a bang as the two of them crashed into the doorway, and Éponine said softly, "Oof!"

Javert set Éponine down on the ground and leaned his weight against her so that she was pinned to the door. Éponine's cheeks began to flush red as she grew more excited by what was going on, and Javert realized that she liked for him to dominate her just as much as he enjoyed doing it. He saw her eyes glint as she stared at him, saw the corners of her lips curl up the tiniest bit, and then she asked shyly,

"And how are you going to make me conceive your progeny?"

Javert felt a surge of fire rush through his veins as he seized her hair in his fist and yanked it back so that her face was turned up to his. Then he grabbed her wrist in his other hand and dragged it to his erection until she wrapped her little fingers around his burgeoning shaft. "You're going to please me until I fill you with my seed," he hissed into her ear. "That's how."

He moved his lips from her ear to the delicate skin below and suckled hard, without warning, pulling her skin between his lips and dragging his teeth around her flesh roughly. Her hand faltered around his member as she went slack against the door. A loud and desperate moan escaped her lips as Javert grew even rougher against her neck, knowing that there would be all sorts of marks left behind from his brutal kisses. When he suckled particularly hard upon her soft skin, she cried out in agony vociferously. Javert broke away just long enough to snap at her,

"Be quiet, Éponine."

Then he crushed his mouth against hers, silencing her moans once and for all as he violently thrust his tongue between her lips and savaged her mouth. He kissed her like he needed it to breathe, as if they would both collapse in death without the urgent, forceful ministrations of his tongue and lips against hers. Éponine squealed almost inaudibly into the kiss, struggling to stay quiet, as he'd commanded her to do. Javert ground his erection aggressively against her flat stomach, feeling his length throb ardently against her skin.

"Do you feel how hard you make me, Éponine?" he hissed raggedly, and Éponine gave him a fervent nod as she stared at him with wide eyes. Her little hands clutched excitedly at his shoulders as his thick fingers drifted between her thighs and felt how soaked she was there. He shut his eyes and sighed shakily against his want and need to consume her. "You are so wet for me, aren't you, my sweet little thing? So ready for me to take you…"

One hand pawed distractedly at her breast, kneading the pillowy flesh there roughly as he began to finger her damp folds with his other hand. He wanted to feel her clench around him, wanted to watch her writhe in the delicious torment of completion, but not until he gave her permission. She quivered beneath his touch, and her nails dug desperately into his shoulders as Javert's calloused fingers moved more urgently against her. He could tell she was close as her breaths grew frantic and ragged and her little cheeks blushed a deeper shade of scarlet.

"Do you want to climax, Éponine?" Javert demanded in a growl, and she nodded agitatedly. Javert smirked as he slowed his fingers against her entrance teasingly.

"Please," she begged in a wild whisper. "Please, I'll do anything. I love you… just please let me…" Her voice trailed off as she shut her eyes and gasped in a rickety breath against the feel of Javert's fingers moving again.

"Good girl," he chuckled under his breath. Then he moved his mouth to the skin beneath her ear and planted a soothing kiss on the flesh he'd savaged earlier. "Come for me," he whispered roughly. "Come on, Éponine."

He rocked his palm against her entrance and pumped his fingers inside of her, hooking them against the spot that made her senseless with want. Within moments, she was gasping and whispering Javert's name as her walls clenched around his fingers, flooding his hand with moisture and feeding the flames of his own desire. His erection pressed insistently against her abdomen, painfully aroused and neglected, as he watched her revel in her climax.

With a deep growl, Javert quickly seized Éponine's wrist and dragged her to the bed, tossing her light frame onto the mattress and arranging her on her hands and knees swiftly. He positioned himself behind her and wordlessly drove into her without warning. Éponine yelped in astonishment and agony. Javert, buried to the hilt inside of her, slapped her backside to chastise her for the commotion.

"Be quiet, Éponine," he commanded. "You are my wife, and I shall take you as I please."

He saw her nod her consent, sending her hair cascading down around her face in alluring mahogany waves. Javert reached to bundle her hair in his left hand and held fast to it, pulling her head back toward him as he began thrusting into her. His right hand gripped her waist very firmly indeed as he lunged, sending his considerable length and girth hurtling into Éponine's slight body over and over again. Soon he was pumping more furiously and firmly than he'd ever done before, and through the ringing of his ears, he could distantly hear Éponine's voice making tiny noises that he knew she could not help making.

Now Javert felt more confident than he had in weeks. In this moment, it did not matter if his undercover maneuver had failed or if a fugitive continued to evade him. All that mattered was his virile power as a man mounting his wife, a wife who adored him and desperately wanted to bear him offspring.

Filled with a renewed sense of purpose and significance, Javert felt a strong tingling overcome his entire body as he thrust roughly against Éponine's rocking hips. A fine sheen of sweat began to coat his sculpted chest and abdomen, and he felt as though his heart was about to pound its way right out of his chest. He felt Éponine contracting against his shaft again, heard her suppressed moans, and knew that he'd made her climax once more. He released her hair and used both hands to hold her hips, driving her so firmly against his own pelvis that he distantly worried he was hurting her.

He began to feel as though he were a dam about to burst, and he felt himself grow longer and throb harder inside of Éponine as he thrashed wildly against her.

"Please," he heard her begging him, her desperate voice sending him over the edge. "I love you so much…"

Javert lost control then, and with a few last deep, powerful lunges, he spilled himself inside of her. He was dizzy with ecstasy as he felt himself empty into her, feeling his seed burst forth rhythmically and knowing that he'd done his duty as a husband.

When at last Javert pulled his softening member from Éponine's breathless body, he urged her to lie down on her stomach, gently pushing her down onto the pillows.

"Well," he said, still panting slightly as he recovered from the forceful nature of their passion, "thank you, Éponine."

"No," she murmured against the pillow sleepily, as Javert rose and proceeded to the washbasin to wipe down his sweaty body. "Thank you. I should say there is no shortage of effort on your part to cause me to conceive your child."

Javert smiled to himself as he coursed a damp washcloth over his sweltering skin, still tingling from excitement and a new sense of confidence. He thought that perhaps he might get dressed and go to see Thénardier, to try to ascertain further information about Valjean in exchange for expunging the warrant out for Thénardier's arrest. Feeling as though perhaps his forced day off might turn out to be unexpectedly productive in more ways than he would have expected, he decided that that was precisely what he was going to do.

As Javert glanced back to the bed and gazed upon Éponine's stripped and ravaged form, he thought with a smirk that perhaps he would not mention to her father what sorts of things he'd done to her.

A/N: So, sorry for the interjection of lemon. I promise that the plot will resume in the next chapter! Reviews make me a happy person!


End file.
